Sing Choirs of Angels
by preciouslittleingenue
Summary: A Christmas one-shot. Erik has been all alone without hope for months now without Christine, but the spirit of Christmas in the form of an unexpected gift just may renew his hope. Merry Christmas everyone!


_I wrote this one-shot for Christmas! Happy Holidays everyone! Please leave a review if you liked it! It's out of character of most of the stories I write/am in the process of writing, but a little bit of fluff never killed anybody! :) Merry Christmas, and stay tuned for Phantom multi-chapters coming soon!_

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Erik felt himself slowly slip out of unconsciousness, and he groaned. Another pointless day for a waste of a lifetime. He forced himself out of his coffin and trudged out into the hall. Now he would resume the same sickening ritual that he performed every single, cursed day. He would mindlessly prepare something, force himself to eat it, and then sit at that wretched instrument with no music coming out. He'd defeatedly drag himself back to bed, then wake up, and repeat it. Every single day.

As he walked out of his bedroom, he allowed his fingers to trail across the precious piece of fabric that he kept on the dresser. It had long since lost that heavenly scent that would bring back delicious, delightful, intoxicating memories. Although it no longer smelt of her, he knew very well that she had worn it, after he had painstakingly crafted it just for her, pouring his very heart and soul into it, along with the gown itself, that had slithered out of his grasp just as she had.

Although he knew it would only bring disappointment, he could not stop himself from pressing his poor excuse for a nose into the veil. Just as he knew it would be, no scent of his beloved lingered. It was just as gone as she was. He dejectedly threw the fabric back down where it had been. She had her own wedding gown now, her own veil, her own husband, her own life. He shuddered to think of her even with children. He nearly became nauseous thinking of his precious little rosebud blooming into a rich flower, her body matured after bearing a child. It seemed unholy that an innocent child like her would have that very innocence plucked from her.

As he walked past the dining room, he paused, seeing the most unusual thing sitting on the dining table. It was a package wrapped it rich red and green paper, topped with a delicate bow. He stared at it for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing together in deep thought and confusion. Suddenly it dawned on him. Today was December the 25th. Christmas day.

Living five stories beneath the surface made it quite difficult to keep track of the days, and eventually they all just morphed together. Why should he bother to keep track anyway? He wasn't waiting for anything spectacular to happen. What care he about Christmas?

And yet, as little as he cared about the pathetic holiday, someone clearly did. Someone who knew where he resided and knew how to get there, and how to get inside the house, all while getting past his traps and alarms. He stepped toward the table so that he may look closer at the odd box. There was a small tag tied around the bow, and he picked it up with his long skeletal fingers.

"For Erik," he read aloud. He immediately dropped the tag as if it had scalded him, branded his parchment skin. He knew that handwriting anywhere. No other hand could create such magnificent curves in such simple words; create beauty out of so hideous a name as his.

His heart began to race as he readdressed the package. He carefully took it into his hands, afraid it might disappear any second. He gingerly ripped the paper, taking as many precautions as he could to preserve her loving efforts of a perfect wrapping job. He had just unfolded the paper enough to see inside, and resting on top of a box was a folded piece of paper. He placed the half wrapped box back on the table and took the folded paper into his hands. His very soul shook as his trembling fingers undid each and every fold. He held the parchment out in front of him, scanning his eyes over the beautifully constructed words.

 _Dear Erik,_

 _I realize it has been over a year since we've last spoken. And I know very well we didn't exactly part on the most pleasant of terms._

 _Something was different this year, Erik. As the holiday approached, I felt myself becoming more and more miserable. I just couldn't put my finger on it. And then after careful speculation, I knew just the illness that plagued my heart. It was you, Erik. Christmastide is a time when one is supposed to be surrounded by love; family and friends. And it hurt me more than you can imagine to know that you were all alone during such a blessed time._

 _I want to apologize for everything. Every single ounce of pain I ever caused you, I am so sorry. I wish there was something, anything I can do to ease your suffering. I thought perhaps sending you some Christmas cheer would help, however little. In light of the events that occurred, I'm afraid I'm just not ready for you to be in my home, and neither is my husband. You must understand that. The wounds that have been brought unto me will take much time to heal, I'm afraid. You must understand._

 _I send my prayers to you every night, my Angel. You are not forgotten, I promise. Hopefully next year you won't be alone on this day. Perhaps a year from today you can be dining with us, meeting the child that is on its way._

 _Merry Christmas, Erik. May God bless you and keep you on this holy day._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Christine de Chagny_

Erik stood in the middle of the room trembling uncontrollably, silent tears trickling down his distorted face. How could such a heavenly creature bless him with good will, with happiness? After all he had done to her, how could she bear to even write his name? He didn't deserve this. A beast such as him did not deserve the forgiveness and care of one so heavenly.

And yet, he stood there, reading the precious words over and over. His Angel of Music had not forgotten him. She had taken the time out of her no doubt busy, fruitful, and joyous life to write him such beautiful words, and to send a gift, and wrap it so delicately. How could a creature so perfect walk this Earth, so horrid and cruel?

He finally forced himself to tear his eyes away from the letter. He lovingly placed it on the table and resumed removing the paper from the box. Once all the paper was removed and placed on the table beside the letter, he was holding in his hands a black box with a lid. He carefully removed the lid. Inside was a delicate porcelain angel, holding a harp. She had rich curls, and was dressed in elegant robes. From it's head there was a string. No doubt it was meant to be hung on a Christmas tree. He took the delicate thing in his deathlike hands. He felt something protruding from the back, and he turned the angel around. It was a small crank of sorts. He turned it with the tips of his fingers, and when he stopped, a tiny melody jingled out of it. It was the sweet sound of Christine's favorite Christmas song. When she was a child he could always hear her skipping about the Opera singing this very song around Christmastide.

The melody played on, and a single tear trickled down his face. He began to join the twinkling melody.

"…Come and behold him, born the King of Angels. O come, let us adore him. O come let us adore, him, O come let us adore him, Christ the Lord."

He stopped, as the angel chimed on, because he swore there was a little girl singing along with him. His crude home melted away and he was once again gazing upon the halls of the dormitories, as a little girl skipped by, a soft blue frock bouncing about her and a festive Christmas bow resting atop her head of curls. Her pure voice of untouched innocence soared through the halls, free and happy; she certainly thought no one was listening:

"Sing choirs of angels, sing in exultation! Sing all ye citizens of Heaven above…"

The melody then slowed, and came to a stop, ending his peaceful reverie.

He sighed. He'd let his imagination run wild again. There was no little girl. She'd gone and grown up, and left. He was all alone.

Ah, but he was not. He had this beautiful ornament now, and that letter, that token of Christine's love. Perhaps next year he'd be dining with her. Of course the Vicomte would also be there, and so would the child…how odd would it be to see his baby girl with her own baby…

But she was happy. And because of that, so was he. His sacrifice was not for nothing. He'd released her so that she would live a happy life, something she knew she could not have with him. His sacrifice was not in vain; his love was happy. It was enough to get him through the year. In a year he'd be dining with her, surrounded by love. Even now, he knew was not without love, and that he was not alone. He smiled to himself and wound up the angel again.

"O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant. O come, ye o come ye to Bethlehem. Come and behold him, born the King of Angels. O come let us adore him. O come let us adore him, o come let us adore him, Christ the Lord."

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 _Thank you for reading! Please review, and Merry Christmas!_


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